


A Better Life

by SteveGarbage



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveGarbage/pseuds/SteveGarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian was the perfect son. But he would not be the perfect Magister.<br/>Halward was the perfect Magister. But he was far from the perfect father.<br/>The struggles, the lies, the crushing shame. Halward could spare his son all of these things that his own father could not spare him, because he had never known the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**One**

His son sat on the edge bed, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest, pouting.

“You embarrassed her in front of her whole family. We raised you to be courteous and kind and you sent the poor girl running out of the dining room crying! What is wrong with you?”

Aquinea was in a rage now. His wife had scolded Dorian sharply at dinner and immediately sent him upstairs, apologizing profusely to Magister Ceratori and his wife Evania. Their blood was as old as any of the other Altus families, even the Pavus blood. His son’s sarcastic outburst would now cost him concessions in the Magisterium. He’d have to bend to Ceratori’s measure deflecting shipping away from Qarinus. He didn’t hold the political capital worth wasting to fight it or risk losing the Magister’s trust.

Dorian kept his head down, his foot tapping impatiently.

“Answer your mother, Dorian,” Halward said sternly.

When the boy didn’t answer, Aquinea slapped him hard across the mouth, hard enough that he yelped like a dog. She was on the border of drunkenness again. After showing the Magister, his wife and his daughter to the door, she had paced around the front hall, the half-filled glass of clear liquor in her hand trembling with the rage that she had been biting back for the rest of dinner.

“Look at me!” she screamed at the boy. “Look at me!”

She raised her hand to hit him again and Halward grabbed it before she could strike him. “That’s enough.”

She was frothing at the lip, the stink of alcohol thick on her breath. She quaked with rage, her eyes threatening to turn it on him. Halward’s dark eyes cut her down to size though, a slight magical heat pulsing through his palm across her wrist to let her subtlely know that she was done. He was done. And he was not playing any more. Aquinea got the message, the fingers of her seized hand curling into a fist as she jerked it out of his grip.

“You deal with him.” Her index finger pointed in Halward’s face. “He’s out of control!” she spat and left the boy’s room in a huff.

He watched her go. She ran to the bottle. She would fall asleep, cradling it in her arms. He would sleep alone. As he had for years. As she had for years.

Halward turned back to his son who was cradling his jaw, a streak of blood across his face. The backhanded blow had slashed his cheek with her diamond ring, leaving a thin, deep laceration across his flesh. Tears were running out of his eyes as he pulled his hand away, looking at the small amount of blood at his fingertips. His fingers glowed white as the teen pressed them to his cheek, mending the cut with his magic, leaving no trace.

“You’ll apologize to the Magister’s daughter tomorrow.” It was not a question, but a demand.

“Yes, father,” Dorian said, sniffling as his fingers worked their way across the long cut of his cheek.

He wouldn’t mean it, but appearances mattered. Ceratori wasn’t a friend, so much as a convenient ally in the Magisterium. He’d want to keep the incident as quiet as Halward. But their casual conversations about the possibility of betrothal had died the second the girl’s silverware clattered to the floor and she ran from the room with her hands over her face.

Halward sat down on the bed next to his son, his fingers rubbing his own eyes. The day had been long enough without drama. He still had a long night ahead of him. He could feel the indigestion brewing just above his stomach. He would need to take some tonic before he went along on his way.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said as his fingertips crossed the last edge of the cut. Now, only the slight stain of blood remained on his cheek. Halward could only hope that he really understood what he was sorry for. Familial slights bred feuds that could last for centuries. Ceratori was more reasonable than that, but not all of the old families were as liberal with their pride.

“Why did you do it?”

Ceratori was pontificating about the need to shift the military shipping to Minrathous. Although the route from the foundries to the ports and the ports to Seheron were shorter going by Qarinus, the route through the capital was much more secure. Three cogs outbound from Qarinus had been sunk by the oxmen in the last month before even arriving upon the jungle shores.

But Halward was barely listening as he tuned in to Dorian and the Magister’s daughter Cressida. The girl had honestly just come into her beauty and the other Altus families had yet to notice. Once afflicted with terrible acne, the girl’s complexion had recently cleared considerably, a growth spurt had better distributed her weight and corsets and cosmetics were doing much to accentuate her nubility. Cressida had bright blue eyes underneath long lashes and golden blonde hair sat lightly across her shoulders in perfect piles of curls.

By all accounts she also wonderfully deft with numbers, despite more middling performance in arcane matters during the winter term at the Circle in the capital. Dorian had finished near the top of the class, as he was expected to. Magister Alexius had sent a letter inquiring about the possibility of a research fellowship during the coming summer. A rare and fortuitous opportunity.

“You look very handsome, Dorian,” the girl said with an innocent smile. “I love your purple scarf.”

After battling for an hour with his mother over what he was allowed or not allowed to wear, he had selected a pair of finely tailored black pants and a white evening jacket over a shirt of shimmering burgundy. Unbeknownst to his mother, he had showed up at dinner with the purple silk scarf casually tossed around his neck and tied. His wife drank her first glass of wine much too quickly after seeing him and began on a second.

“I do look dashing, don’t I?” Confidence was not one of his son’s shortfalls. Arrogance, on the other hand...

“ _Now exchange a compliment,_ ” Halward had thought to himself, his fork splitting a small tomato as he pierced its crisp flesh, stabbing into a leaf of lettuce below it.

Instead, Dorian twirled his finger in the edge of the scarf, his other hand with his fork lazily pushing the salad greens around his plate. He was as disinterested in conversation as he was with his food. Halward groaned inwardly at his son’s reticence. Dorian never had an issue striking up conversation with the sons of Halward’s business associates. But he had always been timid and quiet around the girls.

“That’s a lovely necklace, Cressida,” Halward interjected, interrupting Ceratori’s long-winded stump speech. “I’ve never seen one quite like it.”

The girl’s hand instinctively jumped to her chest, the small, green jeweled pendant dangling just above the sloping curves of her budding breasts. Dorian’s eyes followed her hand, his gaze falling upon her, as she lifted the small pendant off of her pale skin.

“My father got it for me after his last visit to the capital. It’s a volcanic gem, from the caves in Seheron. I just love it. I wear it everywhere,” Cressida gushed.

“Even if it doesn’t go with her outfit,” the girl’s mother interjected with a snort.

“It’s lovely,” Halward said, dismissing a mother’s disapproval. “What do you think Dorian?”

Dorian smirked, the scarf twisting between his index and middle finger.

“It does divert attention from her face.”

Aquinea gagged on her wine as the table fell silent. Ceratori lowered his knife and fork, the slight ding as they touched the edge of his plate. His wife’s eyes went so wide, Halward expected she might faint out of embarrassment.

Cressida’s mouth hung agape, the pendant slipping out of her fingers and dangling back to her chest. Trying as hard as she was, Halward could see the glassiness forming in her eyes. She shuddered, as if suddenly remembering she was in the middle of dinner. “Oh, excuse me.”

“Dorian!” Aquinea bit as soon as she could force down her wine.

“I’m sorry. Excuse me,” the girl said frantically as she placed her napkin on the table and began to push away. In her haste, her knife and fork tumbled off the edge, clattering to the floor. Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she looked down at the fallen silverware, before turning quickly and scurrying away, both of her palms pressed flat over her face as she headed toward the atrium.

When dinner resumed several minutes later with Dorian removed, it took a mountain of sincere apologies before the next course came. Cressida was no longer wearing the necklace. Her gaze was down on her plate the rest of the meal and she didn’t lift her head.

No one spoke to her.

When the evening was over, she ran down the lane to her parents’ carriage as soon as she said her terse farewells.

Dorian sighed now, looking down at his bloody fingertips. “I don’t know,” he admittedly. “I just… I just didn’t like her.”

Halward and Aquinea had both sat down with him months ago and explained that he was growing older and that it was time to start searching for a match for him. He was the heir to the Pavus bloodline. Being the heir came with certain duties and responsibilities that no other Pavus had. His cousins, his aunts and uncles, would kill to have the opportunity that he had. In the family history, some had tried. Others had succeeded, although the ancestry was never particularly clear about which ones.

Dorian could be Archon someday. Halward’s father had cultivated House Pavus, from a middle Altus line to a name that garnered equal parts respect and fear. When he inherited his father’s seat in the Magisterium, everything he had done was aimed at maintaining and further growing that prestige. He was not nearly as successful a negotiator as his father had been, but even a slower increase in clout had allowed them to rise closer to the top.

Dorian was handsome, talented and incredibly clever. Though his more independent and rebellious streaks needed more attention, he had everything he needed to become the greatest of the House. He could become the start of the dynasty, the founder of a legacy that would extend for generations. A favorable marriage would solidify everything they had worked for. Halward had already rejected several suits from lesser houses that would not carry the name and history he required for his son.

And Dorian had listened quietly to it all. He did not cry out for the notion of love in marriage, he did not protest that he was too young, he did not demand that he would make his own match. He said surprisingly little, oddly.

“Cressida Ceratori would be a good match, Dorian,” Halward said. “But we can do better, I think, if that’s what you want. I am not unsympathetic.”

Halward smiled. “I’ve been through it, just as you have. Your mother would not have been my first choice, but my father had my best interests at heart. He made the right choice for me and for you, even though you were years from being born.”

Dorian folded his hands in his lap, then turned them over onto his thighs. He patted the backs of his hands against his legs nervously, then linked his fingers together again.

“What is it, Dorian?” Halward asked. His son was not being discreet that there was more on his mind.

Dorian fidgeted some more, taking a deep breath. He pulled the purple scarf from his neck, balled it up in his hands and rolling it around, wrestling himself. He let the ball of fabric unfurl and fall to the ground, then grabbed his knees with his hands as if he were bracing to be hit across the face again.

“Father, I,” he paused, squeezed his knees, lifted his hands, slapped them back down and clutched them again. “I think. I think I like. Boys.” His head turned quickly to gauge his father’s reaction.

Halward could see the fear, but the sincerity in his son’s eyes. It was brave, incredibly brave for him to make such an admission to himself. Brave, indeed, to speak those words to his father.

Though the words shot a spear of ice through Halward, though at the same time. He was the heir of House Pavus. In time, he would become the patriarch of the family and carry the duty of extending the line. Such feelings, such urges could not be encouraged.

He was just a boy. He was of that age, his blood afire with lust, lust that could grow so thick it clouded the mind. Dorian was admittedly much more comfortable around the other boys than he ever had been around girls. He merely mistook that comfort for attraction. It was all just a misunderstanding.

Halward placed his hand on Dorian’s back and gave him a reassuring pat. “You’re just young and confused, my son. Maybe Cressida wasn’t the right one for you. But we’ll find her, in time. Trust me.”

“But, father--”

“Not another word of it tonight,” Halward said as he pushed himself up from the bed. “I want you to study for an hour before sleep and think about what you’re going to say to Cressida when we see her tomorrow. I’ll have a servant bring up something for you to eat.”

Halward bent forward and kissed Dorian upon the top of his coal-black hair.

“Maybe we can find time to sneak away to the dancer’s den,” Halward said with a secretive smile. “I think you’re old enough for that, now. I guarantee the dancers will light the right fire in you, son.”

Dorian didn’t look particularly excited, but he smiled and nodded. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Don’t tell your mother,” Halward added.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, father.” Dorian smiled now.

Halward tussled his son’s hard and showed himself to the door. He closed it behind him, exhaling as the door latched. He lifted his other hand, watching the trembling in his fingers and giving in to the rush of nervous, anxious worry that had been seizing his body ever since his son had spoken that single word, “Boys.”

Perhaps it was just as he thought. A passing phase. An hour or two with a few women of ill repute might cure the boy. If it failed, at the worst, Halward knew that love and attraction weren’t absolutely necessary in marriage.

Halward knew that all too well.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Halward closed his eyes, feeling the invigorating rush of excitement pulse through his body as his mouth filled with cock.

His hands fanned along his lover’s buttocks, pulling the man’s throbbing phallus deeper down his throat. The rock hard rod slowly rubbing across his tongue, the salty taste of upon his lips and the smell of musk as his nose nestled into the curly thicket of black pubic hair.

Halward lost himself in the scent, the rugged masculine perfume giving him a high. The muscles in his throat were stiffened as he cautiously swirled his tongue around the underside of the performer’s erection, trying not to gag. The man’s pleasured moans and the gentle thrust of his hips back and forth melted Halward as he lost himself in the act.

He shivered as the strong man’s hands pushed his head and shoulders down toward the mattress and jumped when the man’s palms tightly grasped his hip bones. He tingled with the anticipation, that moment of waiting, his rear pointed high in the air, spread and surrendered. The pause, the waiting, the teasing. Every time it boiled within him.

His skin prickled at he felt it, the head of the man’s cock brushing lightly along his flesh. The teasing denial, the rounded head of his stiffness poking at his waiting hole, only to slip away again. It was always a game they played, always drawing out that moment, always torturing.

“Give it to me,” Halward begged, his fingers curling into the blanket, his teeth biting the thin fabric, knowing that his plea would not go unanswered.

The first thrust was always an inseparable twirl of pain and pleasure, hands latched to his hips as the man slid deeper inside. Halward was not afraid to cry out, his muffled screams into the mattress or the curse words he slung with each thrust driving through him, the submission and penetration, the sublime release he craved every moment that he could not have it. He reveled in the labored breathing, the clapping sound of flesh on flesh, the touch of sweat upon his skin and the pleasured grunts of his bull.

And then, after orgasm gripped them both, after the steel faded to flaccid flesh and the tingling ache settled throughout his body, Halward always rolled out of the bed, quickly slipped into his clothes and fled from the brothel.

The hurried walk across midnight-darkened streets, cloaked and hooded, hopefully invisible in the darkness, always seemed to last for hours. The lingering taste of sweat and fluid in his mouth was insufferably bitter, the stink of man upon him repulsive and the throbbing ache in his rear a radiating source of shame.

He slipped inside the front door of the manor, exhaling with relief at making it home once more without being seen. Elsewhere in the house, his wife and his son were sleeping. No one questioned his late-night excursions into the city.

This was his home, a palace screaming of wealth, power and prestige, all built upon decades of lies and self-loathing.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

“I’m sorry, Cressida,” Dorian said with his head hung low. “I do not know what came over me. It was incredibly rude, what I said.”

The girl was not nearly as dolled up as the previous night. Her hair was tied back in one long braid, a jeweled pin on the left side of her head just above her ear. Her dress was much more modestly cut at the neckline, with short sleeves of lace. She wore a pair of short gloves today, he hands clutched nervously around a small handbag. Her lips were painted a vibrant red.

She was not wearing her necklace today. She looked as if she was trying very hard not to burst out into tears.

“I only hope you can forgive my outburst,” Dorian said. He reached out, taking the girl’s right hand, and planted a soft kiss upon her fingers. Dorian had failed to mention that little stunt during his recitation of his apology with his mother this morning. He never failed to surprise.

Cressida turned to look at her father, who gave a slight nod. No doubt her response was just as plotted and practiced as Dorian’s.

“I should not have been so sensitive,” she said, no doubt a line cooked up by her father to try to convince Halward that his daughter could be a quiet, meek, submissive wife for his son. “I forgive you. Let’s forget this silly episode ever occurred.”

A crisis averted. For now. There would be some bumps to smooth out between two fathers at a later time, but the matter was resolved. Dorian wasn’t actually sorry. Cressida didn’t actually forgive him. Such were politics in the Imperium, from the interaction of children to the closed doors of the Magisterium.

“Cressida, dear,” Ceratori said. “Why don’t you take Dorian to the garden and show him your rose bushes? Magister Pavus and I have a few things to discuss.”

“I would be delighted to see them,” Dorian lied.

“Yes, father,” she said dutifully and offered her hand to Dorian, who escorted her out.

When they were gone, Ceratori waved and a slave approached with a tray, two glasses and a bottle. “A 9:08 toasted-barrel barbera from Marnus Pell,” the slave said as he poured the glasses. “Silky and acidic, my lords may notice a slight hint of plum and vanilla. We also have a few roasted duck sausages seasoned with oregano and thyme and a bit of bread with a tart cherry and mustard spread, for your liking.”

Halward took the glass of wine as the slave handed it to him. “I didn’t realize you were now a gourmand.”

Ceratori snickered at the thought. “Hardly, Pavus,” he said taking his own glass of wine and dismissing the slave. “My wife’s doing. We recently obtained a new girl, she used to have a small cafe in Minrathous. But she had the misfortune of displeasing Yrtulious and quickly fell out of favor.”

Magister Yrtulious had twice the girth of any other man in the Magisterium. His word on the local cuisine was therefore seen as law around the capital. He had lifted up and destroyed equal numbers of young chefs.

“My wife felt bad for her. We offered her a two-year contract to serve here,” Ceratori said.

“Two years? A generous offer.” Halward didn’t have any slaves working less than five years and many on much longer terms than that, including, of course, several elven families who were permanently indentured.

“She’s a sweet girl. Very amenable,” Ceratori continued. “Speaking of generous offers and sweet girls, I was hoping we could begin negotiating some terms for my Cressida. I’m happy to put this nonsense from last night behind us. Let’s dismiss this Qarinus shipping matter and discuss some real business for once, Pavus.”

Halward swirled his glass a little bit, taking in the subtle scent of vanilla. He smelled a slight hint of cherry, not plum, but it may have been the blood-red spread that he was picking up from the tray.

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty, trying to introduce them,” Halward said. “My father always said I was too impetuous when it came to bargaining, too quick to the table. You have a lovely daughter, friend, but I’m not yet sure she is the appropriate match for my Dorian.”

Certaroi speared a slice of the sausage with a small, silver fork, looking unconcerned. “If you’re concerned about her performance at the Circle, let me assure you--”

“It’s not that,” Halward interrupted. “I’m just not convinced that they can be, amiable to one another.”

Ceratori smiled as he chewed the sausage, adding a bit of the acidic red wine to his mouth as he swallowed. “I didn’t take you as a romantic, Pavus.”

He couldn’t remember the last time Aquinea told him she loved him. Perhaps it was shortly after Dorian’s birth. He had fulfilled his duty as patriarch of the house. He had little need of her after that. It had taken a few months, a year, perhaps, before she realized it too.

She cared for the child, entertained other ladies in the parlor, began taking an interest in wine and spirits. He did not seek her out in bed. She had lost interest in trying. Halward took to sleeping downstairs. Aquinea did not object.

He still told her he loved her, once per day, although he had never meant it once.

If Dorian was afflicted, same as he, the least Halward could do would find him a wife that he could at least share common interest and complementing personality. There were also stories spoken quietly around the capital about more, liberal, women who were willing to engage their husband’s more unorthodox interests.

The muscles in his groin clenched, the sudden thought of his hands placed flat against the wall, one arm wrapped around his chest, hand holding him by the throat. The other hand, slipping around his waist and clenching the shaft of his cock as he was pounded fiercely from behind.

Halward blinked and took a quick sip from his glass of wine to calm himself. The barbera was more sour than he anticipated. Not the best vintage he had tasted, by any means. Not perfect.

For Dorian, for House Pavus, he could wait for perfection.

“I’m not a romantic, Ceratori,” he said, lifting the glass to his lips again. “Not at all.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

Halward always wondered what the tattoo meant, two black bars just below the right eye.

The dwarf had a habit of dragging his two fingers across them, stubby fingertips streaking across the boxy, black ink that had been stabbed across his rounded cheekbone. Unfortunately, Halward had the opportunity to consider the tattoo monthly.

“My employer is going to need a fifty percent increase next month,” the dwarf said, as he dug his nubby fingers into a bag of spice on the table.

“That’s rather steep, even for you Brevikk,” Halward said as he placed the three bars of bullion upon the dirty table. “The Carta isn’t hurting for business. I know that, because I chair the committee on black market trading, smuggling and narcotics.”

Brevikk placed the pinch of spice into his nostril, a disgusting, whistling, gurgling noise tearing from his head as he snorted the powder. He rubbed his nose, a small bit of wet powder still stuck to his fingertips. He flicked it onto the floor as he snorted twice, shaking his head.

“What can I say, Pavus? I don’t make the decisions. I’m just a middleman. I collect the money. Half to our employer, half for the Carta. You know that.”

The other dwarf, the one without a tongue and a black tattoo that nearly covered his entire face, grabbed the gold bars and carefully slipped them into a sack. The silverite hammer at his hip had flecks of rust from long years of use. Brevikk grimly referred to it as “Knuckle Buster.” Halward was fully aware the name was not a joke.

“Ten percent next month and another ten after that.” Haggling with the Carta was not the wisest course of action, despite the fact that he had successfully done so twice in the last ten years. “And five, just for you, Brevikk. Our little secret.”

The dwarf guffawed at the thought. “I’m not that stupid, Pavus. Do you know how I got this job, Maggie? I got it because my predecessor thought he could get away with a little skimming. You know how I keep both my hands and my head on my shoulders? By not skimming.”

The silent one slipped through the thick door into the back room behind Brevikk’s lordly stone throne. Few people ever got to go so far into the depths of the Carta outpost in Qarinus. Of those who did, few made it back out all in one piece.

The moneylenders on the ground level operated as legitimate as any other, despite everyone in the Imperium knowing where the money really came from. In the first basement was the gambler’s den with dice, cards and contraband alcohol. The second basement was the drug den, with spice, opium, crystal, junkies sprawled out on cushions, naked women just as high draped all around them. The third basement was Brevikk’s office.

No one ever wanted to be in the third basement.

“I’m sorry, Pavus,” Brevikk said in a tone that sounded friendly, as friendly as a person could ever get with a snarling, rabid dog.

“I like you. I feel for you. But it’s above my head. It has to be fifty. Otherwise, we have to start letting the Maggies know about your…” Brevikk poked the two tips of his index fingers together. “Those Thalrassians. They’ll be pissed, I’m sure.”

Aquinea’s father continued to virulently push for harsh penalties for sodomy. He had notoriously jailed his own sister for a year and executed her soporati lover. He wielded a considerable militant arm of conservatives within the Imperial Chantry. Everyone in the Magisterium was afraid to challenge him, lest the Templars in his pocket came kicking down the door of their manors with dubious warrants.

Neverminding all of Thalrassian’s lapdogs. And the Archon, who had taken more hardline positions in recent years. And the rest of the families, who would question the integrity of House Pavus after finding out about such a long and detailed framework of lies.

In the Magisterium, all of its members came from homes with exceptionally deep closets in order to bury their skeletons.

Halward could easily kill the dwarf. He carried the power of an ancient Tevinter bloodline in his magic. Swatting Brevikk into dust and bringing the entire building down would be child’s play. But it would all be futile. Despite years of trying, he still didn’t know which Magister had uncovered his secret. He didn’t know how many other dwarves in the Carta knew. He didn’t know how wide or how quickly it would spread. And he didn’t have the resources to combat it, even it did become known.

He would have to divest out of some of the underperforming Qarinus mining firms, fund another slaving expedition and dip further into the drug trade in order to fund the increase. Halward had little other choice.

“Fifty,” he said coldly, surrendering. “And send another crate of spice to Tullius next week. And two pounds of crystal to Varrimond. And keep your ears open for any brothels looking to sell, top to bottom, I’m interested in anything.”

“No homos, I assume?” Brevikk smiled wildly.

Halward did not smile. “No,” he pushed up from his seat. “Get your money from Tullius. Tell him if he has a problem with that he can come to me personally.”

Brevikk slouched back in his seat, lifting his stubby legs and plopping his shined leather boots on his desk.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Pavus,” he said with a laugh that Halward could barely hear as he turned down the hall. “As always!”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

“I can’t move that much product.”

Tullius was pacing back and forth across the room, his fingers pented across his brow. His white shirt was open halfway down his chest and he was sweating. His leather riding boots clicked loudly against the floor.

“Send it south. Get it into the alienages. You’ll have no problem burning up the supply,” Halward said.

“It’s not that easy,” Tullius said, exhausted. “Thanks to all the Magisters waving their dicks around and pissing all over Nevarra, they’ve tightened up the borders. Those corpse-fuckers are pawing through every wagon that crosses through. Whole crate of spice? No way. No way.”

The recent lull in the battles with the oxmen across Seheron had some of the Magisterium nervous. Those who had lands saturated with forges or training facilities were getting anxious as the storehouses filled and soldiers were milling around with no one to fight. So they had begun turning their eyes southward.

“What about sending it west to Carastes?” Halward said.

Tullius shook his head. “We’ve barely got any penetration. I don’t have enough men to push it on the street and this local guy, Don Juto, he’s got the city locked down. Spice, herb, crystal, poppy, he’s got all of it.”

“Then he must have plenty of enemies,” Halward said. “Or dissatisfied associates who maybe think they could do better.”

Tullius pushed his hand back through his greasy, black hair. “You’re talking about starting a street war. You sure that what you want to do?”

It wasn’t. But the fifty percent raise the Carta needed wasn’t going to pay for itself. Among the vices, brothels had the best margin, but spice was a close second. A few months of bloodshed over turf outside of Qarinus would be expensive upfront, but lucrative in the long run. If they won.

“This Don Juto, whose backing him?” Halward asked. Better not to step on the toes of anyone worth angering.

“No one, that I know of,” Tullius said. “Self-starter. Or so we hear.”

“Take a hundred dragons, get some men, march them onto the street,” Halward said, his mind made up. “Whatever it takes. Make sure it doesn’t get traced back to me.”

Tullius nodded. “If that’s what you want, I’ll get it done.” He shook his head. “Shit. Next time ask me before you go double my stock, alright?”

Halward dismissed him with a wave. Tullius was swearing his way out the door of the study. As the door was about to bang closed, another hand caught it and the man slipped inside.

“You called for me, my lord?”

Spurius had a bald head, two cold black eyes and shoulders as thick as an oxman. He wore a coiled whip at his right hip and a bludgeon at his left. He might have been approaching his fifteeth year, but he was still as hale as any soldier in his twenties. The overseer was as loyal and trustworthy a servant as any man could ask for. The slaves all knew him as “Furious,” although none would use the nickname to his face if they wanted to keep their teeth.

“I need fifty dragons by the end of the week. Who can we afford to lose?” Halward asked.

Spurius knew each of the dozens of slaves around the manor as if they were his own children. Halward didn’t even go to the slave markets anymore. Spurius had a better eye for who was worth their price and who wasn’t. He picked the peaches and avoided the lemons and he always came home with a fair price for the ones he sold.

“I could get fifty for Darius, easily, but I’d hate to lose the man. Strong as a bull and keeps the mine running nearly single-handedly,” Spurius said. “We brought on some extra elves this summer when it looked like a good harvest in the vineyards. With winter approaching, we can probably shed a few. If I take, say maybe three of the women, two in child-bearing age and one of the older ones, I can probably make it work.”

“Get rid of the girl that is attending my wife, too,” Halward said.

The young woman and his wife were too close. He could sometimes hear their muted chatted as he passed, hear his wife laughing from time to time. Aquinea never laughed, not even when she was drunk. Nothing good could be coming of that.

“She’ll be upset,” Spurius reminded him.

“I don’t care. Take the elves and that girl. Anything you get over fifty, keep a tenth of it,” Halward said, dismissing Spurius too.

“As you command, my lord,” he said. Before he left. “My lord, one last matter. I just heard this morning, Magister Thalrassian and his son are coming to visit. They’re expected to be here in a week.”

Odd, that he hadn’t heard that yet.

No doubt Aquinea had been setting it up and had neglected to tell him. As usual. A visit from his father-in-law was never a cause for celebration. And if he was bringing his son, that likely meant his firstborn, not his heir. Joy.

“A moment, Spurius,” he said, stopping his overseer before he could make the door. “One last matter. Just between us.”

“Anything, my lord. I’m at your service,” Spurius said, ducking his head.

Spurius was a slave, but out of all the men in the Imperium, he was the only one who could be trusted. His devotion was complete. He knew more about House Pavus than anyone else. He’d take his own life if commanded, all of his secrets gone to the flame with him. He knew everything.

Everything except one secret.

“My son,” Halward asked cautiously. “Have you noticed anything… unusual? Has he been spending an inordinate amount of time with any of the slaves?”

The best part about Spurius was that he did not pry and he did not dig. He took the question at face value, honestly.

“Not that I have noticed, my lord. Shall I keep an eye out?”

“Yes, that would be appreciated,” Halward said. “Please let me know if you see anything out of the norm.”

“Yes, my lord. I will see to it,” Spurius said and dismissed himself.

Perhaps his overseer knew more than he let on. He knew Halward kept late hours some nights. He knew of his dealings with the Carta. He knew that Halward needed money set aside monthly for payments. And he knew his lord dealt in vice to fund it all.

But he never asked why. If he knew, he never said and never hinted.

Whether it was ignorance or discretion, he carried the lie better than its owner.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

As Quintus Thalrassian swooped down from the saddle, the black and navy riding leather and robes swirling around him, he gave the impression of a thunderstorm.

His once dark hair was now white, combed back in one long streak. His blue eyes were forged of dark ice below puffy eyebrows that always seemed to bend inward at some annoyance. The hard creases around his mouth spoke of a man who rarely smiled. Now, some of those lines were concealed by a thick goatee.

“Pavus! Come here my boy,” Thalrassian said, extending a hand in greeting as he tossed the reins of his horse to a waiting slave. Halward met his father-in-law’s hand, the older man’s grip still as fierce as ever.

“Good to see you again, sir,” he said. With his free left hand his pointed toward Thalrassian’s face and the new facial hair. “You’ve clearly been spending too much time on the border with the Anderfels, my lord.”

Thalrassian snorted, as much of a laugh as the man ever allowed himself. He stroked a hand through the puffy goatee.

“My hands aren’t as still as they once were,” he admitted. “Nicked myself with the straight razor one too many times to care any more. I’m old. People can live with it.”

“Father!” Aquinea floated across the yard and embraced her father. For once, Halward couldn’t smell the stink of alcohol on her breath. No doubt she shaking on the inside, fixing for a glass of wine.

He hugged his daughter tightly, his hand patting her back. “Your mother wasn’t feeling up to the trip, but she sends all her love,” he said disinterested, but peered over her shoulder and quickly pushed her aside.

“And there he is. There’s my grandson! Maker above, he’s gotten so big he’ll be a man before I know it!”

“Good to see you, grandfather,” Dorian said with a smile and a nod.

“All right, then, Dorian. Show me what those old robes at the Circle have been teaching you,” Thalrassian challenged, waving his hands on.

“Are you sure?” Dorian said as he pulled his staff around his back. “You know, grandfather, I’m at the top of my class. I don’t know that you can handle me any more.”

Thalrassian smiled, actually smiled, at the prospect. “And why do you think those robes are stuck in the Circle and not running the Imperium, hmmm? It’s because they can’t stand up to the like of your grandfather!”

Dorian bent his staff down, firing off three quick snaps of spirit energy at his grandfather, the older man’s hand lighting with a bit of white light as he smacked them aside with ease. But that was only the misdirection as Dorian quickly raised his hand, purple fire wicking off his fingers as he threw forward his real attack, the spirit mark clawing forward through the air.

But Thalrassian was still the master, his right arm twisting around, fingers placed to his forehead just between his eyes, a short pulse of spirit energy erupting off of him in a dome, pushing Dorian’s spell up and away. Just as quickly, his left hand turned, the quick snap of a light as he paralyzed Dorian’s arms, causing the boy’s staff to tumble out of his fingertips.

The Magister snapped his fingers, releasing the spell on Dorian, who rubbed his arms in disappointment and bent down to pick up his staff.

“I really wish you two would stop,” Aquinea said. “One of these days someone is going to get hurt.”

“Oh hush,” Thalrassian said. “I remember when you used to run around the manor slinging spells at me.”

The second set of horses trotted in the gate, the second wave of Thalrassians attending their lord who never could wait for anyone. At their lead, the Magister’s oldest son rode in ornate armor with two swords crossed at his back. Despite having exceptionally thick Altus blood, Primus Thalrassian was a reminder that there was no guarantees with magic. He had been born without the gift. In some families, he would be a stain upon the house, but his father had made sure to see that he would rise up as far as his mundane blood would allow.

With him, his two sons, both mages, both slightly older than Dorian. Behind them, an column of soldiers, retainers and slaves. All together, it looked as if Thalrassian brought a small army with him. There hadn’t been any oxmen attacks on the mainland in at least a year and the highways were incredibly safe with regular patrols. There was no cause to travel with such a large retinue. Thalrassian, no doubt, had other interests beyond a visit with his daughter and grandson.

And behind them all, a large carriage carrying Primus’ wife and his two daughters.

“I didn’t realize you were traveling with so many,” Halward said, masking his annoyance with his father-in-law. The man never hesitated to impose. “I’ll have to have get the servants to open another wing.”

Thalrassian clapped him on the shoulder. “A little pleasure, a little business for the Archon. I’m sure you’ll find space for all of us.”

Halward forced a smile. “Business” meant trouble in Qarinus. There was nothing else worthy of the Archon’s gaze this far north. Halward had ears all over the city, but wasn’t aware of anything going on under the surface that would warrant such fanfare. He swallowed, considering for a moment that his father-in-law’s “business” might not be in Qarinus at all. It might be right here, on his own estate.

Likely not. Thalrassian was nothing if not blunt. If he had come here to arrest Halward, he wouldn’t have made polite small talk. He would have come in, horns blaring and slapped a pair of lyrium cuffs on his hand by now.

And yet, still, he couldn’t shake an uncomfortable feeling at the untimely, unannounced visit.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

He quickly ran a towel over his sweat-soaked skin, swishing wine in his mouth to wash the taste of semen off his tongue.

The two statuesque men lay on the bed, one lounging with his hands clasped behind his head, the other still stroking his slippery, softening cock as he tried to catch his breath.

Halward didn’t turn his head to look at either, a twisting disgust cutting through his stomach as he tossed the moist towel onto the floor and grabbed his pants. He stood, shoving his legs quickly into them, sliding into his shirt, throwing on the loose, hooded cloak over it all and tying the cord at his waist. He stepped into his boots.

“Why don’t you stay a little longer, messere?” one of the men said, the sound of his palm clapping against his rigid abs. “You paid for the whole night. Give me a few more minutes to recover and I’ll be ready for a second go.”

Halward’s stomach churned at the thought. His own groin was pulsing and spent after the paralyzing orgasm. The thought of being stuck on all fours between two men had been exhilarating just an hour ago. Now, past his pleasure, he was sickened by the memory.

It was Primus’ fault. The sound of the creaking bedframe through the door, the muted moans of his wife, the grunts of pleasure and effort from his brother-in-law. Halward’s ear placed on the door, he could hear the muffled sounds of their passion. As he stood outside the door, his cock stiffening, he had reached down to stroke himself. By the time he forced himself away from the door, the fire inside him was burning, an unquenchable urge throbbing through him once more. He had dressed quickly, darting down the darkened streets of Qarinus and come to the brothel once more.

The golden coins spilled across the counter as he haphazardly threw them, so anxious to go into the back room, disrobe and wait for the spoils his money had bought him.

Now, he burst back out the same door, the hood drawn over his head, his gaze pointed down at his feet as he slipped out the back door and onto the street. A light fog had rolled into the city, accompanied by a slight drizzle. He could see his breath, coming out of his feverish body in white plumes as his feet quickly pounded across the rain-slickened stones.

Just a little farther back to the manor. He could draw a bath and scrub himself clean and slip into his bed for a few hours of sleep. If he missed treating his guests for breakfast, no one would be offended. Everything would be fine.

And then he came upon the gate. And there in the yard, the horses were standing and the soldiers standing in the rain, and his father-in-law barking orders.

“Pavus! Is that you?” The old man’s voice barked through the darkness. His eyes were as keen as they had ever been. Halward put his hand up to acknowledge the man and pulled back his rain-soaked hood.

“What are you doing out so late? I hadn’t realized you had left,” Thalrassian said as he adjusted the saddle on his mount, the magister’s whitewood staff displayed proudly at the back of his gold-trimmed light armor. The magister was dressed for battle.

“A bit of emergency business,” Halward lied, hoping his father-in-law could not smell the musk of men on him in the rain or sense his unease. “Nothing too serious, but needing my immediate attention.”

Thalrassian stepped up into the stirrup, his leg swinging over the flank of his horse as he lifted the hood of his robe over his snow-white hair. “Pavus, I know you have some holdings in… less than reputable business. Let me give you a little advice that my father gave me. If it’s open beyond dark, it’ll be nothing but trouble for you and your house.”

Halward swallowed and wiped the rain off his face with his hand. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” he said. “Where are all of you off to?”

“We’re ready to move, father,” Primus said as his horse stepped next to the magister. He was in full armor, his twin swords hanging perilously over his shoulders. “At your command.”

Thalrassian nodded. “Archon’s business, Pavus,” he said. “We’ll shouldn’t be gone long. Keep the stableboys awake for us, will you.” He turned his head over his shoulder. “Let’s move boys. Quickly in and quickly out. Just like always.”

“Get some sleep, Pavus,” Thalrassian said as he snatched up the reins. “We’ll go riding tomorrow. To celebrate.”

A snap of the reins and his horse lurched ahead, the rest of his men following in a column behind him. At the gates, Halward remained, shivering from the rain and the chill and the relief of escaping his father-in-law’s gaze.

He headed toward the front door of the manor. A quick bath and a drink to calm his nerves.

Perhaps tonight he would slip into bed with his wife. Appearances mattered, at least for one visit. He could play the part. A loving husband and wife. An act he had played for years.

An act that continued to fool everyone except himself.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

“And what do you intend to do about this, Pavus!” his father-in-law bellowed.

Thalrassian still held Dorian’s shirt by the collar, shaking the boy as if he were rattling a pickpocket caught on the streets. Dorian kept his head down, but his arms and legs were rigid and he was clearly terrified. He had gotten himself in deep, deeper than ever.

“I came here seeking this kind of corruption in Qarinus, but I did not expect I would find such depravity in my daughter’s own home!”

Aquinea was standing behind her father, her arms crossed and her face as red and fuming as her father’s. If he were not there, she would be taking her anger out on the boy, leaving him with a collection of new bruises.

Spurius had found Halward, but too late. Not before Thalrassian had gotten to Dorian first. Not before Halward was able to shield him from his grandfather’s wrath.

Everything that unfolded was like a bad dream. Over breakfast, Thalrassian regaled him with the tale on the midnight raid of a Qarinus brothel catering to the disgusting whims of the homosexuals. They had taken two dozen men out in cuffs, arrested the owners and seized all of their assets.

The name and location of the place were all too familiar. An hour earlier and they might have been arresting one more man.

Halward had nearly dropped his cup of coffee and his appetite was decimated. His stomach lurched, the creeping chill of anxious fear pervading him, knowing that it could have been him. His unclean urges, his secret life all could have been exposed by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And then this morning. They were getting ready to go riding. A cousin went to fetch Dorian. They found him entwined with one of the slaves.

The slave’s pants around his ankles.

Dorian’s hand wrapped around his stiff cock.

Their lips joined stealing a kiss with each other.

Primus’ son had bolted through the house to find his father, who bolted directly to his father. And now they were here. Dorian’s downcast eyes told Halward that the accusations were true. Dorian could lie his way out of about any trouble, but he was clearly ashamed. And his son’s demeanor filled him with emptiness and a pain like someone was repeatedly punching his stomach.

“Spurius,” Halward said as he looked at his son with pity. “Bring me this slave.”

After a quick moment, his overseer returned with the man in question. A young man, human, with a muscled body. His sandy blonde hair was shaggy. His green eyes shone under long eyelashes. He was not someone Halward recognized. The boy wore Thalrassian’s colors. One of the magister’s retinue.

“Take him out to the yard,” Halward said.

Spurius led the slave out. Halward followed. The flock of angry spectators followed, Thalrassian dragging Dorian by his shirt, his mother now bending down and angrily whispering into his ears and smacking the boy’s arm as they walked. Halward motioned with his hand and Spurius crossed to the center of the small courtyard, the stone post jutting up from the center of the enclosed plaza.

Spurius linked the chains, locking them, and shoved the slave down to his knees. He fetched the knife from his belt, dragging it effortlessly through the thin shirt the slave wore. Spurius knocked aside the flaps of fabric, exposing the man’s tanned back.

Halward extended his hand and Spurius quickly unclipped the coiled lash from his belt, placing it in the magister’s hand. The leather strap felt heavy in his hand as his fingers coiled around the wrapped grip. He looked at the kneeling slave, who did not move except for his fingers shaking in fear in the iron manacles.

“Ten lashes,” Halward announced, his voice low as he delivered the grim sentence, biting his lower lip.

Then he turned and extended the whip to his son. When Dorian raised his head, his eyes were glassy with tears.

“No father don’t--” He tried to plead, but Halward silenced him by firmly pressing the handle of the whip into his son’s hands. Behind the boy, Thalrassian gave a curt nod of approval.

“Deliver the sentence, Dorian,” Halward said sternly.

“Father, no, I--”

“Do it!” Halward shouted, his voice brutal as he grabbed Dorian’s shoulder and shoved him forward toward the slave.

Dorian turned his head back to look at his father, his face pleading for mercy. Halward desperately wanted to give it to him, but he could feel his father-in-law’s wicked gaze piercing the back of his head.

There was no justice in this sentence. A runaway slave was deserving of ten lashes. A slave who tried to steal his wife’s jewelry might deserve ten lashes. A troublemaker speaking of rebellion would take ten lashes. But not this. And putting the lash in Dorian’s hand was an even crueller punishment, but one that he knew Thalrassian would demand of him.

So Halward lifted his arms slowly, crossing them over his chest and steeling his heart against his son’s desperate plea.

Dorian, sensing no pardon, turned his head, his hand bouncing up and down slightly as he took two more steps to close the distance to the slave. He paused. His fingers lifted and closed around the grip of the lash again.

And then Dorian swung, the leather strap whistling, the crack thundering against bare flesh, and the slave crying out in pain at the blow.

“Harder,” Halward demanded.

Dorian’s arm wound back and swung again, the second blow faster, the brown lash blurry as it tore the air, the connection slightly louder than the first. The slave cried again, a whimper escaping his lips as the new vibrant red mark appeared across his shoulder blade.

“Harder!” Halward screamed.

Dorian’s chest shuddered and Halward could tell it was not only the slave who wept now. Dorian’s hand lowered slightly, the bloody tip of the whip touching down onto the stone.

Halward stomped his foot into the ground, sending a bolt of surprise through his son. “Do it, Dorian! Deliver the lashes or I will give him five more to suffer for your insolence! Strike him! Do it now!”

Dorian’s fingers clenched around the grip of the whip and he screamed as he brought his arm around again, the third strike stripping flesh off the slaves shoulder. The boy bawled openly now as he watched the streak of blood run down the slave’s back in a slow rivulet. He pulled back, delivering the fourth blow, another chunk of skin shearing at the impact. The slave screamed. Dorian’s arm wound around, the fifth strike glancing weakly off the slave’s shoulder.

Dorian’s arm slumped and he wailed, his chest wracking with sobs as his barely kept his grip on the lash.

“Do not stop. Do not stop!” Halward demanded.

“Please, father,” Dorian wailed, his weak words nearly unintelligible in his sobs.

“Spurius!”

“Yes, my lord.” The overseer jumped to action, peeling the whip from Dorian’s hands. He immediately did his duty, his muscled arm wheeling around, the brutal strikes tearing flesh and splattering blood across the slave’s back. The slave shook and screamed now, the full force of a trained overseer’s strength behind each strike.

At the final strike, Spurius stepped back, casually winding the whip back into a coil as he stepped away, leaving the slave slumped and bloody, locked to the whipping post. His entire body trembled, a patchwork of red, bleeding wounds painted across his bare back.

Dorian took one more look at the bloody slave before him, then ran out of the plaza, streaking in the direction of his bedroom.

Each step his son took trampled Halward’s heart into bloody paste.

A heavy, dead hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“You did well, Pavus,” Thalrassian said, looking upon the bloodied slave. “He’s yours now. Keep the slave, to remind your boy of the cost of his… abomination.”

Halward watched the slave’s hands, clenching in and out, reaching futily for anything to hold, stretching to find some release from the blazing pain they had cast upon him. His shoulders twitched under the weight of his arms tied to the post, the rest of his body in a pile upon the now-stained stones of the plaza.

Halward smacked his father-in-law’s hand from his shoulder.

“Get out of my home.”

Thalrassian looked stunned, lifting his scorned hand as if it had been burned with hot metal. His face was equal parts disbelief and rage.

“What did you say to me?”

“Get out of my home,” Halward repeated. “You and your family are not welcome here.”

“Halward!” Aquinea shouted.

“Shut up, woman or I’ll throw you out too!” he boomed.

“How dare you speak to my daughter--”

“Get OUT!” Halward shouted again, his hands reaching out and shoving Thalrassian back before he could even realize what he was doing. The old man stumbled back a step and his son swooped forward to catch his father before he fell.

Primus reached for his sword, but before he could lay his hand upon the hilt, Halward had his arm paralyzed. With a flick of his left wrist, a quick burst of force magic, he threw the boy aside like the expensive toy soldier he was. Primus tumbled into the wall, the crack of metal armor on stone wall as the man crumpled to the ground, holding his head.

“Halward! Stop!” Aquinea shouted again and tried to step forward, but his magic locked her down in paralysis with the twist of his right hand. He could feel Spurius stepping up, just behind his right shoulder. His hand, Halward knew, was already resting on the handle of the bludgeon at his hip.

Thalrassian looked right, back at his son on the ground, dazed, but unhurt. He turned his head left, looking at his daughter, her hand outstretched toward her husband, frozen in place as rings of yellow, paralyzing light surrounded her. Then he looked back at Halward, who had not moved and stared down the man.

“I knew it was wrong to engage with your family of serpents,” Thalrassian said as he raised an accusing finger. “I let your father manipulate me into believing House Pavus was more than just a mediocre, backwater bloodline. I did not trust him then, so I do not know why I am surprised now that you show your true colors, Pavus.”

The name passed his lips with such bitterness and vitriol.

“You are a fool to make an enemy of me, boy,” Tharlassian declared. “I am Quintus Thalrassian and you are nothing. I will see to it that you, your House and your demon child are smashed into dust.”

“Get. Out.” Halward issued the statement the final time, opening himself to the Fade and letting his body fill with power. One more word and he would kill the man here and now, damning the consequences. The Magisterium was a game, a game that could be manipulated if it needed to be. One Magister, even one influential Magister, was not an insurmountable challenge to erase.

And Thalrassian turned. He helped his son to his feet and corralled his grandsons and went.

And when he released his hold on Aquinea, she looked at him with disdain.

“I hate you,” she hissed.

“I hate you, too.”

Aquinea went to follow her father.

“Spurius,” Halward said, looking at the empty doorway where they all had fled as he pressed his hands together, his eyes floating upward toward the window of his son’s room in the tower.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Unchain the slave. Take him to be healed. Then ride straightaway to Qarinus and contact Brevikk. Tell him I need Thalrassian and his entire retinue killed on the road by morning. No errors. Whatever the cost.”

“Yes, my lord.” Spurius obeyed without question

Halward listened to the jingling of metal as Spurius worked the locks on the slave’s chains. The walls of his house felt like they were collapsing around him as the cloudless blue skies mocked him.

He felt ill to his stomach, sicker and sicker with each step he took toward his son’s room.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

“Go away!”

The shout was muffled, as if Dorian’s face were buried in the pillows on his bed. Halward turned the handle, finding the door locked. A quick flick of his fingers and the magic turned the lock, popping the door open. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

“Dorian…”

“I said go away!” His son’s arm flailed out, throwing a pillow across the room as he buried his face deeper into the mattress.

“Dorian, please,” Halward begged. “Let me explain.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” his son shrieked.

Still, he walked across the room and sat on the edge of the bed, placing his hand lightly on Dorian’s back. The boy jerked and rolled, tossing it away as he turned his back to his father and curled into a ball. He could hear his son’s quiet whimpering.

“I’m sorry, Dorian,” Halward said. “But you are the heir to our house. There are certain sacrifices that have to be made, for your family and for the Imperium.”

Dorian didn’t say anything. He curled tighter into a ball and continued to ignore his father. Halward couldn’t blame him for that. He could only blame himself.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Halward said. “I only ask that you trust me. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

_Except tell you the truth._

“Someday, when you’re a Magister, when you have your own wife and family and are the patriarch of this family, I only hope you’ll look back on this day and understand.”

Dorian sniffled and turned over, his eyes still red with tears. “No,” Dorian said. “I don’t want to play these games. I don’t want a wife. I don’t want to be a Magister. I don’t want to be like you. I’ll never be like you!”

_You already are so much like me._

“Dorian, you have to trust me--”

“No!” his son interrupted, slapping his hands against the bed.

“You’re just confused Dorian, there is time--”

“No, I’m not confused,” Dorian said more forcefully, interrupting a second time. “I’m gay.”

The words struck straight to Halward’s heart.

“Dorian--”

“I’m sure of it,” Dorian said, no longer sniffling and whimpering. He sat up on the bed with a confidence and strength now, his shoulders and his head high. “I’ve known for a long time, father. This is who I am. If the Imperium cannot accept that and if you cannot accept that, then neither of you deserve my trust.”

Now the tears were on Halward’s cheeks as he looked at his son. Dorian was so young, so proud, so confident. His son, still just a boy, yet so unafraid of the world. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. Tevinter would devour him, no matter how brave he thought he was.

Now it was Halward who quivered, a shudder running through his chest as he looked down upon his only son, his heir. From the day Halward was born, he was groomed to become the leader of House Pavus and set upon the path to seize the Imperium. He had walked it, following every step his father demanded, even when the path crossed against his own interests.

His father had known what was best. It was only Halward’s weakness that threatened to unravel their glory.

And now his son sat before him, facing the same path and denying it.

Dorian looked at his father with such pity now, squirming on his bed, confused, perhaps second-guessing himself now as his father cried before him. Halward lifted his hand, cradling his son’s cheek, and forced himself to smile.

“My Dorian,” he said weakly.

_I won’t let anything bad happen to you._

_I accept you, for who you are._

_I’m so proud of you._

All of the words swirled through his head, but none crossed his lips. He was Magister, lord of House Pavus. His father would never show such weakness. The Imperium would not accept such softness. And even if they were the words he felt and the words he knew his son needed to hear, Halward could not speak them.

“Try to get some sleep,” Halward said instead. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

He descended the last of the of the steps, the sleepy guardsman standing up from his spartan wooden chair.

“Lord Pavus!” the guard said, snapping to attention.

“At ease,” Halward said. “I will speak to the prisoner. Alone. And then you are dismissed, guardsman.”

The guard nodded quickly, nervously. “Yes, yes, my lord. Understood.” He fumbled at his belt, pulling the ring of metal keys and slipped the cell key into the lock, giving it a quick jerking turn. The lock clicked and the guard popped the door open, quickly replacing the keys at his belt. “I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed, my lord.”

The nervous guard scurried away, taking the stairs two at a time.

Halward stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. His fingers pinched the deadbolt, turning it slowly until it locked into place. He pulled out the small glass bottle from his pocket and the small leather sleeve of tools and placed them on the floor.

The blonde-haired slave hung limply from the wall, a series of white bandage wraps crossing over his shoulders and chest as his head hung low, his curly hair dangling down across his face. The muscles in his arms were taut, his arms spread out to either side and his feet fettered to the ground. The slave weakly lifted his head, seeing who it was.

“My lord,” the slave said weakly. “Please. Mercy.”

He knew well enough that he was in trouble and did not waste any time to start his begging. Halward crossed the narrow cell, looking at the small bucket of water on a table out of reach. Halward grabbed the metal ladle, dipping it into the bucket and lifting it to the slave’s lips, allowing him to drink. The man gulped, water spilling out of the sides of his mouth as Halward tipped it back. The slave coughed and sputtered as Halward placed the ladle back into the bucket.

“I confess, my lord,” the slave began. “I seduced your son. I took advantage of his youth for my own perverted pleasure. I deserve no mercy, but still I beg it from you. Please, my lord. Please, I swear I will never go near your son again.”

It was all a lie. No slave was stupid enough to lay a hand on a noble unless they were asked. Halward knew that it had to have been Dorian who initiated the encounter. Halward knew it all too well, because years ago, it was him.

Halward’s hands stretched out, his fingertips pressing lightly against the slave’s chest, feeling the rigid muscles of his body. His brushed his hand down, following the curve of the man’s pectorals, slowly running down the ridges of his abdomen.

“My lord, I--” Halward raised a hand, pressing his fingers to the slave’s mouth and silencing the words with a spell. He would not speak and would not make a sound.

Halward reached his left hand around the side of the slave’s neck, holding his head just behind the ear as he pulled his face forward, pressing the slave’s lips to his own. His body pressed up against the muscled slave, his tongue darting across the man’s lips, his nostrils taking in the masculine scent of the younger man. The slave, perhaps confused, perhaps to scared to struggle, surrendered, his mouth opening, his tongue flitting out between his lips to meet the magister’s.

Halward pressed his body against the man’s legs, grinding pelvis to pelvis as he dove once more in the forbidden pleasure he denied himself every day of his life. He could feel bulge of a stiffening cock pressing against his hip, feel the subtle pushback of the slave’s hips against his own, as much as he could move fettered to a wall.

His hand slid down, diving into the man’s pants, his fingers wrapping around his cock, giving a slow stroke from base to head as Halward bit the slave’s neck. He was on fire, the desire burning through him as he felt the slave harden even more in his palm, struggling to break out of the closeness of clothing. Halward’s tongue ran across the slave’s collarbone, small, light kisses planted down the center of his chest, tracing a trail down, down as he went to his knees, his hands wrapping around the man’s pants as he tugged them down from his waist.

The slave’s hard cock dangled before him now, just above his eyes, the man’s scrotum contracted in the chill of the dungeon, the tuft of blonde, curly hair wrapping around his manhood.

This. This was his failing. This was the weakness inside him that Halward could not deny and could not overcome, his base urges overwhelming his reason and his decency. He could not resist. He had never been able to resist it.

Halward placed his hands upon the man’s hips and took him inside his mouth.

He thought of what might happen if someone walked into the cell now, as his head bobbed up and down, his mouth filling. He wondered how many other magisters lived this lie. He wondered if his son had been in this position before, down upon his knees and filled with shame.

House Pavus needed a ruler. Halward had to have a wife and he had to have a son. He had to rule in the Magisterium with power and pride, to change the course of the Imperium from the fools who sought to drive it into oblivion. He had to be peerless, flawless, untouchable. He needed to be the best of them, for Tevinter.

His father-in-law would be dead by now. His wife, who had hated him for years would know that he was to blame. And the betrayal and murder would stew within her for the rest of her life. She could not accuse Halward Pavus, because no one would believe her. And she could not leave, because there would be nowhere for her to go and no one who would accept her if she spurned him.

The cities flooded with drug. The miners worked to exhaustion and death. Slaves were bought and used and discarded. House Pavus ran like a brutal machine, life chewed up and destroyed to the light the fires that fueled its growing strength and power. It ran on blood and death and lies and it plowed forward, destroying everything that stood in its way. He clawed his way to the peak of the Magisterium, the carpet of blood and bones trailing behind him wherever he went but invisible to everyone else except him.

No one except Halward saw the faces of the many men. Hard bodies, willing lovers, paid and used and never seen again. How many had there been over the years? How many of them had he tasted, how many had looked upon him and not known him as they slid inside of him to sate his sickness?

The shame. The lies. The daily denial, knowing, a mind knowing that it was not right but a body that could not resist. Halward could not give it up, he could not repel his urges no matter what he tried. Years and years of trying, failing, submitting, hiding.

Halward felt the clenching of muscles, the tightening of the slave’s hips under his hands. The slave’s cock pulsed into his mouth, filling it with thick, salty, warm shame.

Halward pushed himself away, spitting onto the ground and wiping his mouth, turning his eyes away as he felt himself filled with that disgusted hollowness he knew so well. He could see the light glisten of sweat, the sheen of spit and fluid still upon the slave’s softening manhood. The slave was disgusting. What had just happened was sickening. Halward was unredeemable.

He grabbed the glass bottle and the sleeve of tools, raising his hand and casting a spell, tendrils of magic snaking into the slave’s head. His eyes were white were fear, his face strained in agony as the magic prowled through his head. Halward clenched his fist, the magic constricting, causing the slave’s brain to burst within his skull. A jolt shook through his body, less than a second long as the slave fell limp in his chains.

Halward grabbed the thick needle from his pouch of tools, driving the metal spike through the man’s chest and into his still-shuddering heart. He pulled the second piece, spinning the metal on the threaded end of the needle, locking it into place. The small tap clicked into place.

He put the bottle at the end of the spigot and turned the small knob, watching as the thin stream of crimson-black blood began to fill the vial. The slave’s blood made the glass warm to the touch as it filled, sanguine liquid staining the sides of the beaker. Halward gave the knob another twist, shutting off the flow. He tugged the spigot out, watching as the stream of blood bubbled from the puncture wound and ran down the dead slave’s chest.

Halward pressed his fingers around the wound, magic quickly sealing it. He pulled a rag from his pocket, wiping the streak of blood away. Last of all, he bent down and pulled the slave’s pants back his waist, tying them in place, before he turned for the door of the cell.

* * *

 

Dorian didn’t even flinch as Halward passed his hand over his son, the spell putting the boy into a deep, deep slumber.

He watched for a moment, silently admiring the peaceful look on Dorian’s face as it rested lightly upon his pillow, watching the slow up and down motion of chest underneath the blanket. Halward brushed his hand lightly through Dorian’s oily black hair and bent down, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead.

The pin pricked Dorian’s finger, drawing a single drop of red blood. Halward carefully lifted it away, letting the single drop fall into the glass of blood he had extracted from the slave. Halward took a breath as he held the glass, his magic connecting to the blood, unraveling the chains that hid away the forbidden power within. The vial began to glow, a dull red that seemed to pull in the light from the rest of the room and destroy it.

Halward sat down on the floor next to the bed, placing the glowing vial between his crossed legs. He pulled the knife from his belt, the bare steel catching the red light of the vial. He looked up once more at his son, dozing softly on his bed.

Dorian was the perfect son. But he would not be the perfect Magister.

Halward was the perfect Magister. But he was far from the perfect father.

The struggles, the lies, the crushing shame. Halward could spare his son all of these things that his own father could not spare him, because he had never known the truth.

“Forgive me, Dorian,” Halward whispered to his sleeping son. “I won’t let you suffer.”

Halward dragged the dagger across his palm, his blood igniting as soon as it touched the air, reacting to the vial he had prepared. The darkness of the bedroom began to peel away, his spirit pulling from his body and launching into the Fade.

He could find his son’s consciousness in the dream world and he could carefully alter it. He could mend what was broken in his soon. He could save him.

Halward could give Dorian a better life.

**Author's Note:**

> Completed for the November Monthly Minor Character Challenge: Halward Pavus at the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers group on Facebook. Find us on Facebook and feel free to join, we're always happy to add new writers!


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